


And Right Now

by softcorevulcan



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Comfort, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Slash, Relationship Study, Slash, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 06:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16676023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcorevulcan/pseuds/softcorevulcan
Summary: “You should be resting.”There was something unnecessary, but safe, about all of this.Harold can’t remember how it felt exactly, the last time he felt in any way safe to have someone in the place he was supposed to live.(An exploration of how Harold and John interact. And what John thinks as he decides he'll be with Harold, when Harold is ready to connect to someone again.)





	And Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, I'm only in the midst of watching this show, and I've got a lot of feelings. I love how nuanced all of the characters are written. I love how genuine the connections between all the main characters are. Please feel free to rec me any stories that explore the characters, the potentials of this show. I listened to D.L.i.d. - Color in Your Hands (feat. Fink) while writing this, if anyone wants some background music. 
> 
> Takes place sometime in Season 4, before episode 8 Point of Origin.

Harold didn’t have a gun pointed at him, but he halted in place all the same.

Not that John would ever hurt him.

Before Harold could bother to ask, John answered, “It’s not as if you’re hard to find, Professor.”

Warmth. Always warmth.

This was new. John being some place like this, some place with him, some place that was supposed to be home. Supposed to - but wasn’t. Because home really wasn’t a place that existed for Harold anymore. The closest thing, maybe, were the spaces off the grid where he spent doing his work, his real work. The real him.

Or the closest to the real Harold that would ever be left to find.

John had never managed to find the old place, where Harold used to sleep, before they’d assumed these new covers.

Harold had looked into it, of course, knew the location of the apartment John was supposed to be inhabiting now. He wondered if John spent any time in it. Maybe only the time the initial instructions from the machine’s messages had told him to.

John is smart. He’s probably spending whatever necessary amount of time he should be in that particular place.

Harold supposed he’d never had enough time to actually consider, that of course John had figured out where Harold was supposed to be living as well.

He let himself ask, “What do you want?”

But really, there wasn’t a point.

Maybe the point was to see John’s just barely there smile.

“You should be resting.”

There was something unnecessary, but safe, about all of this.

Harold can’t remember how it felt exactly, the last time he felt in any way safe to have someone in the place he was supposed to live.

In the time before John had started working for him, even the library had never felt - but somehow, eventually, John being there, had changed everything. Had carved out this feeling, this space. Had changed a world of dangers into - something else.

The world has only grown more full, of all seeing eyes both familiar and freshly birthed, unearthed and created and twisted, and always more. Always worse. It’s why he’s living in this place now. Why he’s going by Professor, being somewhere easily found exactly because it’s what will avoid his being caught.

It’s a slim chance, that they don’t get caught. The odds are bad. They’ve always been mortal, the survival of anyone who’s run into contact with him. But still, now it’s somehow worse.

So much worse, that they can’t even play things off the grid anymore.

Harold wants to say to John, that Detective Riley shouldn’t be here. But it’s too late for that, anyway. Any damage is done.

All the damage was probably done when he first reached out, made contact with John. A few years ago, now.

Besides, the way John is looking at him, like a man who’s used to having a gun and refusing negotiation, he doubts he’d win much ground. Not that John would ever do that, to him.

Harold follows John, out of the kitchen where he’d been trying to make himself dinner. It’s an invisible compulsion that moves him. Desire, guilt, some unnameable thing. It’s knowing that John is concerned, and just wanting to ease that pain.

Harold can try to ease that pain. It’s the least he can do, after everything.

The least he could ever do, to try to make up for things that he will never be able to right.

John leads him to his own bed, waits expectantly for Harold to sit down. Harold can’t help but oblige, he owes John that.

He wants to heal the worry from the slight terseness to John’s frame, from the barely perceptible added hardness to a face that’s already trying to always be unread. John reaches out and helps to unbutton his shirt, to look at the wound, to check that it’s healing correctly.

John doesn’t scold, but he goes to get a rag, and a bowl that he goes to fill up in the bathroom sink. Grabs gauze from the medicine cabinet, comes back to clean and redress the injury. He stands the whole time, over Harold like some protective shield, some barrier between them and the outside world. The world full of dangers.

Harold doesn’t want John to take the damage for him.

-

Harold is complacent enough, and John’s been around long enough to know that cooperation doesn’t necessarily mean the man is in agreement with him.

Not that John would ever try to threaten Harold into complying - John suspects even if he could, would, that Harold would remain stuck in whatever resolutions he’s already made. So he just hopes Harold humors him.

John tries to avoid thinking about what happens if Harold orders him away. Worse, what happens if Harold simply asks. So John keeps concentrating on the wound - the one Shaw fixed up. Because Harold claimed it wasn’t that bad - just a scratch, he’d said, though John disagrees. A scratch that could easily become infected and dangerous, because they couldn’t go to a hospital, or rather, because Harold refused to go to one. They used to have the medical equipment for this, now they have Shaw. At least they still have her.

Harold hadn’t said it, but John was sure Harold thought a cop going to the hospital to fix up a gun wound was less suspicious to an artificial intelligence that monitored discrepancies and deviance in behavior, than a Professor that lived in a relatively docile little block of some unassuming neighborhood. No threats as an excuse at the job, at least none that wouldn’t draw attention to mark him as more significant.

Honestly, it was a bullshit reason. But John was going to let him coast by with it. Assuming Harold was at home, nursing himself better, going easy on himself.

However, Harold was not. When John had unlocked the door, he’d found boxes in the living room and foyer, and a front closet half gone through - perhaps another person’s stuff, someone who had lived here before. And Harold, in the kitchen, chopping up beef and vegetables, the counter likewise a mess.

John knows their finances have all taken a bit of a hit, but really, Harold could’ve sprung for take out, or ordering in. He hopes Harold doesn’t ask him to stop.

To leave.

The wound is cleaned up and dressed, and John is redoing the buttons up on Harold’s white shirt. There’s a small stain, on the inside where a bit of dried blood must’ve smeared, but it’s barely visible on the outside. And John doesn’t think Harold is up to changing right now.

John can see the weary set to his shoulders, energy all sapped out, he must be running on fumes. Stubbornness and the endless task of things left to do, just driving him ever forward.

John doesn’t know what he’d do, if - he stands up, sets his eyes just right, for Harold, and hopes the message there is accepted. Harold, he hopes, will remain seated, resting, as John gives a nod and then goes to the kitchen to finish whatever’s cooking.

The food is easy enough to prepare. John isn’t so bad a spy, he knows what spices to throw in. At least, he thinks he’s got the preferences down. Unless Harold is lying about that, for some reason, when he’s got this kind of food near John.

He’s a private person, after all.

And right now, John’s destroying that privacy.

John comes back, once the food is finished, with a plate and a glass of water. He knows, inside some part of his mind, that his cadence probably belongs in a dark hallway leading to a cell, leading to an end. But Harold doesn’t look at John like that’s what he sees.

Harold is still sitting on his bed. He’s thrown his feet up, put some pillows behind himself. Harold is docile enough as John sets the water down on the night stand close by, opens his hands to receive the plate John hands him.

“Aren’t you going to eat too?”

John can feel himself smile, just a little, and that pressure inside that’s not actually pressure at all. That makes him feel like he’s melting and sinking, and not really sinking. More that he’s coming out of the darkness, and that maybe, there might not be any darkness left. John goes back to the kitchen and makes himself a plate, glad that Harold doesn’t tell him off for taking the job off of Harold’s hands.

That Harold just lets it be. John comes back, and the chair that was by the bed is tilted closer to it, has been moved several inches and is within intimate reach of the night stand now.

He sits down in that chair, some part of him glad Harold’s made the effort to place him closer than he might otherwise be.

A practical part within him, moderately irked that Harold probably jostled his wound rushing to move the chair and get back on the bed in the moments John was gone.

The way Harold looks at him, obvious eyes fluttering over in John’s direction as he chews quietly and probably debates if he should compliment the cooking or act suspicious it’s made just the way John has seen Harold have this meal before. The way he looks, obfuscated by glasses, a little shield that Harold doesn’t even realize gives him the power to make the outer world go away and minimize to just this. If John didn’t need his eyes so bad, he’d want glasses, maybe, once in a while, because then in the agony of not being able to see the threats for a moment, at least he might manage to pretend they’re something he can let go of, if only for an instant.

But then, he really can’t ever let go of them. He never could. It’s why, in the end, he was never cut out for his old job. Not completely, utterly. He couldn’t follow orders without looking for the why and the reason, and the repercussions. Harold couldn’t ignore the irrelevant numbers, and John -

He’s just glad he’s here now. That this is what he’s doing.

There are worse choices that could’ve been made, than this.

John wonders if he’s looking back at Harold, the same way that Harold is glancing over at him. The dilated eyes, the warmth in the subconscious turning of the bodies toward each other, the thread.

It was hard to feel, to see, maybe it wasn’t even there - in the beginning. Harold just holds everyone so far away. But it’s here right now.

How much Harold cares.

And hopefully that’s why John won’t have to talk about if he should be here.

Not specifically the care about the numbers, the people - Harold doesn’t hide that so well, or maybe he’s not bothering. It’s that thread, latched on like the last thing he wants is to lose John, lose them. The magnetic touch when his eyes track over John’s body, then it switching cold like a machine, trying to turn off whatever originally compelled Harold to look.

John would do it, if Harold asked.

If it was about this.

John can feel it, can see it. The way Harold’s body says in no small terms it would be delighted if John just stayed. Just came closer until they touched, and didn’t bother letting go. Harold's eyes, mistaken in thinking their intensity might be waned, looking at John and wondering what he’ll do next.

But John can’t move first. Harold should know that by now.

Harold should look at him like the threat he is. Harold should know better.

But there’s nothing there.

No danger, no shield to try and ward John off. To keep himself protected.

There used to be, had to have been, at some point. But that point must have passed.

The only shield in this room is Harold holding himself back, trying to protect John from him.

It’s silly, really. John has already made it abundantly clear he doesn’t want to be protected from Harold. And they both know they’re in too deep to ever disconnect now. There is no playing safe.

But even if there was, John will not leave. He isn’t letting Harold -

They don’t have to do this alone anymore. If Harold has to leave, then -

He won’t. John can hold the strength for a while. Harold held it for him, when John needed time to escape it all. He’ll be here if Harold needs to run. John won’t run for him.

“I’m not going to leave you.” It’s quiet. He wonders if Harold is even sure what he’s talking about.

Somehow Harold does know, though. The way his face warps, a slight upset, Harold knows exactly the message he’s been sending, is aware that he’s been caught trying to silently beg John to flee somewhere safe. Somewhere that isn’t with Harold, that isn’t private, that isn’t this.

Somewhere Harold can’t hurt him more. But Harold doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it at all.

“I think I should probably -” the rest dies in the darkness at the edge of the room, doesn’t carry past the lamp at Harold’s side. Their eyes are meeting, and John thinks they don’t want to let go.

“I can stay. You’ll probably get another number in the morning.”

It’s an out, an excuse and the truth at once, and Harold takes it. “I suppose I’d just have to call you, and then refill you in on what information I find, if you head home now.”

“That place isn’t home, Harold.”

Harold couldn’t agree more, the way he sinks against the pillows, like the truth is a freight train, and it’s crashed over his body on the track.

“Would you like the bed, Detective Riley? Or I could make up the couch?” Harold makes to stand, but John beats him to his feet, and is glad the gaze he directs down at Harold makes the man stop and stay in the bed. John takes their plates from the night stand, goes to put them in the kitchen sink. When he returns to Harold’s bed, the man is off of it, puttering aimlessly and barely, standing by the nightstand with a hand on one of the pillows, unsure what John would allow Harold to do for him.

John feels that ever present ghost of a smile that flitters up when Harold meets his eyes, with this careful intimacy they’ve built, outside the parameters of a work conversation. “Where would you like me to sleep?”

John can see something fleet across Harold’s face, an echo, smaller than John’s fondness, but there’s something revealed that Harold can’t catch and suppress.

“Wherever you’d like, John. It’s why I asked.”

John decides, right then. He can’t really bare any other choice, in this moment. It’s too hard, to make any other one.

“I’ve got some notes I brought from a case - another one. You can get some rest. I’ll be up for a while.”

Harold has his own secret smiles, and that spark he tries concealing slips out as his eyes soften, regarding John. “I’m not the only one who needs rest.”

John’s smile can’t contain itself, but he makes to leave the room anyway. He hopes the intimidation he carries, that Harold ignores with ease, still somehow compels the man to actually take his advice. Harold really needs to take care of himself. “Well I’m the only one without a bullet wound. This time.”

He tries to leave the room smoothly, but he can’t muster the nerve to close the door behind him. As he turns away to exit, the words slipping out, he realizes Harold’s probably considering the alternate scenario. And to Harold, guns shot at John are a lot bigger of a deal than John tends to treat them.

The grass isn’t greener on the other side, it’s the same exact concern, the same fear ignored by a damaged party, and they’re both in no place to really protect each other from anything.

All John can do is hope that maybe sometimes he makes Harold feel like they’ve found a small place where the darkness within them has been carved around, and they can just be safely themselves. In the privacy of knowing each other, and hoping their thoughts come close enough to understanding.

He does end up doing a little paperwork for a case he brought over, but it’s mostly an excuse. When Harold finally nods off, blessedly respecting John’s advice - and really, Harold needed it, he was waking exhaustion - John comes back to the bedroom, to the recliner by the nightstand.

He sits and works until he’s sure Harold’s truly drifted enough not to wake too terribly easily, then brings a blanket from one of those boxes half opened in the foyer, and drapes it over Harold’s curled up form. John figures he’ll just sleep in the chair.

An idea drifts, when John is still too awake to let go of his unceasing urge to constantly monitor the surroundings, an idea that’s warm embrace and much too good to ever be true.

The thought of Harold, waking slightly, sleep as easily disturbed as John’s, blinking up at him and asking him to come lay down. Turning to face John and curling around him, pulling him under the blanket, into the warmth. Into the space, of just Harold and him, somewhere safe. Even if safe is just safe because they’re allowed to be themselves, alone with each other, in the moments before their minds drift off, in the small sliver of time when Harold might let such a thing be okay.

But John’s mind is stark, and still alert enough to know that the only way that would play out, is the way it would were Harold drunk or drugged or being self destructive for some unpredicted reason. John would smile, and let Harold be safer alone. Where John and everything inside him can’t slip out and corrupt, where Harold won’t wake up later in fear he’s condemned the man he loves by connecting to him.

John knows Harold wouldn’t want that.

Harold isn’t ready to be himself with someone again. He doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt.

He doesn’t want John to.

But one day he’ll figure out, John can handle it.

John’s okay with whatever happens. He already decided that, a while ago, some moment early on he couldn’t pinpoint. Some moment which won’t be changed. John will be here.

He hopes he’ll drift off to sleep soon. The next moment after darkness will hopefully be -

There’s too many dangers outside of them. It’s no wonder Harold’s restless, won’t take the time to heal. There’s too little time, never enough to prepare.

-

When John does wake up, neck feeling slightly crooked as his head rests against the chair awkwardly, he sees Harold’s eyes bereft of glasses, gazing fuzzily up at him, gentle smile meeting his.

The smile fades and is put behind shields, after a moment, but Harold is gentle on him, and sits up slowly so as not to hurt his injury further. He’s being compliant, as a favor to John.

John can’t help but smile back at it, stretching himself out too, moving to sit upright.

He woke up to the best case scenario.

No threats, no crises, no missing Harold. No private place where Harold might be lost, whereabouts unknown. Now Harold lives in this place, Professor Whistler’s, and Harold Whistler is a man John can find. A man John can help without being trapped by lack of information.

He can be here as long as Harold asks him not to leave.

It’s a step closer than it was before. At least now, there’s choice on both sides.

“I hope you got rest, I sure didn’t.”

“I guess it’s good you aren’t recovering from a gunshot, then.”

“I’ll try to catch a nap later, if I can.”

Harold looks like he doesn’t believe him. But it’s a gentle forgiveness.

John returns the forgiveness in kind, as Harold pushes himself up, mutes the obvious pain at the pressure, and moves toward his closet as if nothing was hurt.

“Should we pick up some breakfast?”

“Can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.”

Harold smiles, face turning from John’s face to the clothes on their hangers, but the brilliance is a feeling that engulfs the room. It’s a long way from their first visit to a diner, Harold making to leave just as John had found him.

“I don’t suppose you brought any clothes?”

John grabs the glasses Harold has abandoned on his nightstand in the haste to get dressed into fresh clothes, and then comes up to stand beside and behind him, protective habit. Joins Harold in considering the clothes hanging in Professor Whistler’s closet as well.

He can tell Harold’s body tenses, then consciously tries to relax itself again. Probably equal parts of fear on Harold’s part, that he might weaken his defenses that already are barely there, barely keeping them separate, and terror that John’s proximity to him will somehow put John in actual harm’s way.

The world is full of terrors, and for the two of them, they are both within and without.

When Harold turns around to face John, seeming to have decided he will allow this closeness without worrying about the dangers for the present, he’s greeted with John offering his glasses out.

“Forget something?”

They’re impossibly close, except it’s not impossible at all. In a way, its a new normal Harold sometimes allows, without making himself break away in order to somehow protect them both.

Sometimes, two people just don’t need protecting from each other. They’re better off just accepting that the strengths that come with connecting, are worth the risk.

John will be right here, when Harold’s ready for that.

When that happens, he’ll kiss Harold right back.

And hopefully then, Harold will understand, they don’t have to always run away from the things they love. Sometimes, it seems like that’s what’s best, what makes sense, what will do the least harm.

But John has decided he won’t run away from this - things like this.

This time will be different, than the last time he loved -

He’ll be here, he won’t be gone when someone needs him, this time.

When Harold is ready, John will hold him close.

Until then, this is fine. And right now, Harold opening up, slowly, in his own time, letting himself drift closer inch by inch, as the span of time passes - this is more than enough.


End file.
